Sons of War

Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. The characters are either taken from the movie or from history. This story is heavily AU and veers into alternate history.

Chapter 2: Kings and Queens

The city was abuzz with the news that the previously-undocumented third son of Godfrey of Ibelin had arrived, and what an arrival it had been. "He must be someone worth knowing if Saladin himself sent word to pardon him," said Sibylla as her maidservant handed her a goblet of sherbet.

"I've heard he's handsome, milady," said the maid. Catherine was a plain but astute girl who seemed to know all the gossip in the city; it was very useful to have a servant like her when one needed to be ahead of things in order to survive. "But then, all the Ibelin men are."

"Being a son of Godfrey, I wouldn't expect anything less," said Sibylla. "But I am curious as to where Godfrey has hidden him all these years." She lay back on her low couch as servants fanned her. "Perhaps I should pay him a visit."

"It wouldn't do to be too obvious, milady," said Catherine. "You'll need an excuse."

"Godfrey is an old friend," said Sibylla. "I don't need an excuse to visit him after his return from France. And if I happen to make a new acquaintance, then it is just good luck on my part."

"The King has summoned Lord Godfrey to the Citadel," said Catherine.

Sibylla sat up and rose from the couch. The silk of her robes flowed like water as she moved. "I will act as if you never said that, Catherine," she said. "Come. A new curiosity awaits."

"Lord Godfrey's son is not an exotic beast to be gawked at."

"No, indeed. He is an exotic man from Europe who has piqued my interest. Tell the grooms to prepare my horse. I am going out for a ride." A handsome mysterious man from the faraway lands of France. What could be better than that? If his father and brothers were anything to go by, then the rumours of his handsomeness would be accurate.

Godfrey's house was in one of the quieter quarters of the city, nestled amongst other similar houses of comparable size. Even though its location was 'quieter' in relation to the rest of Jerusalem, one could still easily hear the sounds of the criers and vendors on the busier streets. The guardsmen at the door recognized her immediately and opened the gates for her, even as she indicated that they shouldn't announce her arrival. She was here to observe, not disrupt.

She urged her horse through the gates and into the square courtyard, scattering a few hounds and chickens. There was a blacksmith at the centre of the courtyard, hammering a shoe onto a horse's hoof. His back was to her, but it was a very interesting back, with well-defined musculature that rippled as the man moved. He must have heard her enter, but he continued to work.

"Where is your master?" she demanded of the man. Finally, the man set down the hoof he'd been working on and turned around to see who had interrupted his work. He was indeed beautiful; perhaps one of the most beautiful men Sibylla had ever seen, and she was accustomed to charming handsome courtiers, like Baudouin of Ibelin. The familial resemblance was there, but the half-naked man standing before her had none of Baudouin's arrogance or artificiality. He was irritated that he'd been so rudely interrupted, but he was too polite to say so out loud. Some things didn't need to be said.

"I have none," he replied, looking her directly in the eye. His daring was refreshing. Then again, he didn't know who she was. She wondered, briefly, if he would still behave in the same manner if he did know, but then she decided that she would not care to find out. She was going to enjoy this whilst it lasted.

"Give me some water," she instructed. He had every right to refuse her. She was being terribly rude, but he didn't, and it wasn't because he was afraid because he definitely did not fear her. He held up a silver ladle filled with water and she took it from him. Usually, if she ever made such a demand, other courtiers would be scrambling to offer her their finest goblets to drink from. She had never had to drink water directly from a ladle before. The liquid had been warmed in the sun, and it was slightly stale, but her mind was not on it. Instead, she was observing the man in front of her who was now stroking her horse's neck gently.

"You shouldn't work her so hard in the heat," he told her.

"Thank you for the advice," she said as handed the ladle back to him. "I shall take that into consideration. When the master of the house returns, tell him that Sibylla called."


"The rumours are most definitely true," said Sibylla to Catherine as she swept into her chambers. "He is very handsome, and so refreshingly frank."

"I know, milady," said Catherine as she removed Sibylla's veil and then handed her a cool damp cloth to wipe away the dust from her face and hands. "I was there."

"I was a bit rude, wasn't I?"

"You are a princess, milady. You are not rude; simply spirited."

"I do like the way you think, Catherine." Sibylla finished wiping her hands and threw the damp cloth onto the proffered golden tray. Catherine took the pins out of her hair, letting it tumble down in a mass of dark tousled locks. It gleamed in the rays of sunlight that filtered through the hand carved windows. "But he does not know who I am. I want to keep it that way. I could come to enjoy his company."

"You are a married woman, milady. It would not be proper."

"As if I could forget Guy. Besides, considering the way he looked at me, I do not think he thought much of me and my rudeness. Oh, such is the plight of women; we are scorned by the men we desire and desired by the men we scorn. Except…I do not think Guy desires me."

"There is no man in the world who would not desire you."

"Don't flatter me. I know that my husband frequently strays from the marriage bed."

"At least he is not like my husband, who died in the bed of his mistress as I waited for him alone."

"You know, it is unjust that a man can have so many women and not be despised by all around him, but if a woman should even think of taking another man to bed, she is condemned by all around her."

"This is a world of men, milady."

Sibylla gave a snort that lacked any royal dignity. "I would like to see how they manage without women," she said. Her thoughts would have continued to dwell on Godfrey's son if a high pitched shout had not interrupted her. "Maman!" Sibylla sat up and just managed to catch her daughter as the child leapt at her.

"Melisende, how many times do I have to remind you that princesses do not jump and leap?" scolded Sibylla. "You are supposed to be a lady. At this rate, we will never find you a husband."

"Good," said Melisende. God, she had her father's temper. William had been brimming over with opinions too and he hadn't been afraid to share them; at least, not with people he trusted. With his enemies, he'd been smoother than silk from the Far East. Sometimes, she really did miss him. She hadn't been in love with him, but there'd been love between them all the same. Unlike her ridiculous infatuation with Guy, which had long since turned into boredom and courteous disdain. "I don't want a husband. Boys are tiresome."

"You have to marry sometime, darling," said Sibylla, tucking a stubborn wisp of hair behind her daughter's ear. She'd let the child run wild, allowing her the freedoms that she'd never had but wished she'd had. "Or are you going to be a nun, hm?"

"My aunt Iveta is a nun, so why can't I be a nun too?"

Sibylla sighed. How did one explain politics to a seven year old?


The Holy Land was an alien world of sand and arid heat and blazing sun unlike any other he had ever seen. Everything was so bright, so colourful. Even the sky was bluer. The cacophony of voices on the streets, all speaking in different languages, could almost drown out his thoughts. If he tried hard enough, he could even forget, albeit briefly, what had brought him here to this beautiful strange place where Christ once walked.

He kept on thinking about the beautiful rude woman who had ridden away in a flurry of silk so colourful that it resembled a spun sunset. Balian had never seen such beauty in his life, nor had he ever met a woman who was so bold as to ride into someone's courtyard and make demands without so much as greeting anyone. She was utterly captivating. In fact, he was so preoccupied that he didn't notice his brother and father riding in through the gate until they halted their horses in the courtyard and dismounted.

Baudouin stared at him incredulously, unable or unwilling to believe that his brother would actually deign to take up a hammer to shoe a horse himself. Balian was very much aware of how different he and Baudouin were. His older brother was a properly brought up nobleman who knew the proper etiquette and way of doing things. He had charm, subtlety, and a way with words. Balian had none of that; at least, he didn't think so. He did not see the point in dressing up what he meant to say, and he just couldn't do it. Words were not his strength. He preferred actions.

"He will embarrass all of us soon enough," he heard his brother murmur.

"Quiet," said Godfrey sternly to his second son. "I am glad to see that you have recovered," he said to Balian. The younger man dipped his head.

"Milord," began Balian awkwardly. How was he supposed to address the man who sired him? In his head, he knew that Godfrey was his father, but in his heart, his father was still the old blacksmith who had raised him and taught him everything about his trade. They'd had their difficult moments. The blacksmith, his namesake, had been unreasonably harsh on him when he'd been younger, but in the end, they'd come to an understanding and the old man had loved him like his own son. Perhaps more than his own son. "A woman by the name of Sibylla called whilst you were out."

Baudouin spat out his mouthful of wine, spraying the sticky liquid all over the ornate camel-hair rug on the floor. "Sibylla?" he said.

"Yes," said Balian. "That was what she said her name was."

"And what did you say to her?"

"She asked for water, and I gave it to her. Should I not have done so?"

"Do you know who Sibylla is?"

No, Balian didn't. She was most likely a noblewoman, judging by her garb, but he had no idea of what manner of noblewoman she was. Perhaps she was one of those…no. In all likelihood, women in the east were not like those in the west, and just because she was so bold did not necessarily mean that she was…well, a lady of the night who had the patronage of powerful men.

"Sibylla is Princess Sibylla of Jerusalem," said Godfrey, who seemed a little amused. Now Balian didn't know what to think. If she were the princess, then why did she not tell him? Why did she not demand that he pay her the respect that a woman of her rank deserved? From his understanding, barons, and the sons of barons, would go down on their knees before royalty. At least, that was what he'd heard. He'd never met royalty before, until now.

"Do you think…I offended her?" asked Balian a little apprehensively. He was completely out of his depth in this place. Every moment, he had to remind himself that he was not a blacksmith in a small village in France anymore. He was a baron's son, a nobleman, distant kin of the kings of France and the lords of Le Puiset.

He still felt like that blacksmith who became an engineer whenever war struck.

"Knowing Sibylla, she probably enjoyed the fact that you didn't know who she was," said Godfrey, slapping him on the arm. "She is an old friend of the family, and I'm willing to bet my best charger that she knew exactly who you were, my boy." Well, that was reassuring. However, Balian still wasn't entirely comfortable with the situation, especially not with the way Baldwin was looking at him.

His brother seemed to be contemplating fratricide. Baudouin's mistrust was obvious. Balian supposed that Baudouin suspected him of wanting to usurp part of his inheritance; he himself understood that sort of suspicion. After all, his other brother, Guillaume, had loathed him because their father had left the forge to him instead of to his own flesh and blood. And Godfrey had given him part of Baudouin's inheritance; the family's original fief, Ibelin. Balian wasn't interested in courting Baudouin's favour. However, he hoped that the other man would come to understand that he was not here for an inheritance. It would make things very complicated if the Ibelins were to fight amongst themselves. He understood that much.

"Well," said Godfrey as he got up from his seat. "You should get dressed, the both of you. We are to dine with the rest of the court tonight, and you must look the part of a lord of the House of Ibelin." Balian stiffened. A lord? Him? He couldn't imagine it, and apparently, neither could Baudouin.

"Father, that's a mistake," he said. "Look at him. You cannot take him to court, or do you want our family to be the laughing stock of the city?"

"He will be fine," said Godfrey sharply. "I have faith in him. He is of my house, and he will do me proud."

"But—" said Baudouin.

"We will speak no more on that matter, Baudouin, and if you are so afraid to be seen with your brother, then perhaps you should consider dining alone." The baron turned to his youngest son again. "There are people who are eager to meet you and I am eager for you to meet them."

"Milord, I have never dined in such noble company before," said Balian. "Perhaps I should wait—"

"There is a first time for everything, young man, and if you don't take that first step, you'll never get anywhere. It will be fine. Trust me. You will be a soldier amongst soldiers. This is where you were meant to be."


He tried not to stare, but he could not prevent himself from watching her. She was so beautiful and so at ease amongst all the lords of the kingdom. She spoke in the tongue of the Saracens to servants and discussed matters of state with her brother's subjects as if she were the queen, whilst her husband sat meekly by her side, occasionally speaking up to agree with her. Everything about her pointed to her exalted status; her airs, her confidence, her education, her ability to command attention and instruct men. She was like no other woman he had ever seen.

Their eyes met across the table. She gave him a small smile and then raised her cup in salute. He could only return the gesture; that was the polite thing to do, wasn't it? Balian felt like a donkey amongst destriers, awkward and out of place. Before him were steaming platters of meats and vegetables in strange spicy sauces the colour of desert sand and blazing skies at sunset. The spices burned his mouth, making him reach for his wine in a desperate attempt to douse the fires burning his tongue.

Everything was so different here; even the French they spoke sounded different, peppered with words gleaned from the locals. What were the hashashin? They spoke of emirs and sheikhs, of princes and emperors. Balian had heard of the emperor who dwelt in Byzantium, but that was it.

There was another woman at the table, sitting slightly lower down that Sibylla and her husband. Her dark eyes were downcast, but they saw everything, observing every subtle move like a predator on the prowl, searching for the right prey animal before zoning in for the kill. She was not beautiful, and probably never had been, with her sharp profile and slanted eyes, but there was something about her that attracted the gaze of men. Her olive skin was oiled, and her dark hair tightly coiled on top of her head. She was slightly older than Balian himself, although she was much more experienced.

"That is the dowager queen, Maria Comnena, great niece of the Emperor," Raymond whispered to him. Godfrey had introduced Balian to his old friend, the Count of Tiberias. Balian liked Raymond well enough; the man was straightforward and he never tried to smooth his words. He bore a limp from an old leg wound, but his sword was fast and his mind even faster. It was Raymond who had told him that the Sultan himself had sent word that he was not to be blamed for the death of the Saracen warrior he'd killed in the desert. The Count of Tiberias had seemed impressed. "Be careful. She is on the lookout for a new husband."

"Surely she ought to have no trouble finding one," Balian whispered back. "She is not unpleasant to look at."

"Beware the wiles of a beautiful woman, young Balian," said Raymond. "She is dangerous. Her dower, the Municipality of Nablus, is rich, but she seeks a husband who is of one mind with her, or whom she can control. She wants to put her daughter, the Princess Isabella, on the throne, and she seeks a husband for her too."

All these princesses and queens and husbands and wives; it was making Balian dizzy. And he'd thought village gossip was complicated.

"She is watching you," Raymond adds.

Surely enough, Maria's beguiling dark eyes were fixed on Balian. They were her finest feature, framed with thick dark lashes and artfully lined with kohl. She did not attempt to talk to him or to communicate with him at all. Instead, she took careful bites of her food and remained silent. She was the type of woman who did not speak unless absolutely necessary, but when she did speak, men listened.

Nearby, Baudouin drank and laughed with a group of young nobleman clad in colourful damasks and brocades. Such opulence was not to be seen in Europe, where everything was so much more sombre, like the climate. Servants hovered about, unnoticed as they filled goblets and removed empty plates and dishes that had gone cold.

Balian felt a tap on his shoulder. "The King requests your presence, milord," said a servant clad in blue and gold; the colours of the Kingdom. "He awaits you in his study."

Godfrey and Raymond both rose, preparing to escort Balian into the king's presence. However, they were both intercepted by the dowager queen herself. "I will take him," she said in her lilting voice, her Greek accent subtle and exotic.

"Milady, you need not bother yourself," said Godfrey with a small bow.

"It is no bother, milord," said the queen as she rose in one swift moment. "I have had quite enough to eat and drink, and I wish to retire for the evening; it is merely a matter of convenience, as we are both heading in the same direction." Maria smiled at Balian, and he began to understand just exactly how dangerous she was. She might not be much to look at, compared to Sibylla and the other ladies of the court, but the queen had a sort of charm that only a seasoned woman could have.


He was so young, so innocent, and quite handsome. If she had been any younger, she might have fallen for a man like him. She was beyond such ridiculous flights of fancy now, of course. Still, she harboured an irrational liking for Godfrey, and she had a feeling that she was going to have that same sort of liking towards his youngest son. Baudouin she could care less about; he was typical of the spoilt young lords who populated this court. He was beautiful to look at, yes, but she knew enough about him to not feel anything for him, unlike the majority of women in Jerusalem. Still, if he hadn't been married, perhaps she might have tried to seduce him with the price of her dowry if not her charms, which were not insubstantial.

She brought her thoughts back to the present. Baudouin might be a candidate, but here was a far more suitable young man. He didn't know anything about the political intrigues, which ought to make him easier to manipulate. Besides, he'd been poor his entire life. Surely such wealth would be able to entice him into siding with her.

Maria glanced at the young man walking beside her. His shoulders were broad; he probably lived off the fruits of his labour back in France. It only made him more…appealing.

"How are you adjusting to life in the east, milord?" asked Maria, startling the young man. His eyes were as dark as her own, offering a window into a tortured soul. He was confused, in pain, in need of salvation. For a moment, she felt a stab of sympathy, but that quickly disappeared. There was no room for sympathy in Maria's life; she neither gave it nor received it.

"I am adjusting well enough, milady," he said, bowing to her. He was learning the ways of a courtier very quickly. She liked a bit of intelligence in a man. Actually, she really appreciated intelligence. It was a rare thing. "Thank you for your concern."

"I remember when I first arrived here," said Maria. Oh, how clearly she remembered it. She'd been so alone and frightened and angry that she'd been used as a political pawn by her great uncle. She was his favourite niece, for God's sake! However, knowing Manuel, he'd probably thought that he'd been doing her a favour by giving her the chance to be queen instead of some obscure princess somewhere. He'd always understood that she had ambitions. "Your father was my only friend." That was the truth, strangely enough. Godfrey had been kind to her. He might be on Sibylla's side now, but even so, there was respect between them. If he hadn't been such a staunch supporter of her stepdaughter's, Maria might have considered marrying him instead. As it were, they were political enemies now. Fate was cruel.

Balian gave her a small smile and said nothing. He was nervous and she could sense it the way a hawk would sense the hare's fear. He feared her, and he was right to do so. She was no longer the hapless young princess from Byzantium. She'd rooted herself in the politics of Jerusalem. Nothing was going to happen without her say-so.


He was on full alert. Maria was dangerous; at least, that was what Raymond had said, and he trusted Raymond's judgement. His father hadn't mentioned the dowager queen at all. However, considering the way he looked when she offered to take him to the king, Balian wagered that Godfrey never thought that she'd be interested in this blacksmith from France. He didn't think he'd gain the attention of a queen either, and especially not the Emperor's great niece.

She soon disappeared into her own chambers after pointing out the direction of the king's study. He was strangely relieved after she left and he let out a breath that he hadn't even known he'd been holding. Balian wasn't so naïve as to not realize that he'd been having an effect on her. The reverse was also true, for he had felt some sort of attraction towards that dangerous queen. However, it had mostly been trepidation and respect. She was, after all, a queen.

As the servants opened the ornate carved doors to admit him into the king's study, he felt as if he were walking in a dream. Pale tendrils smoke floated out from the bronze thuribles hanging from the ceiling, surrounding him like a mist on a cold winter's morning. The fragrant smoke hid an underlying cloying scent, not dissimilar from that of putrefying flesh.

"You must be Godfrey's son," said a voice. It took a while for Balian's eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. When they did, he made out a figure behind the veil of smoke, swathed in bandages from head to toe. "Come forward, so that I may see you."

The voice belonged to that of a young man, probably even younger than himself. The figure rose slowly and turned around. Instead of a man's face, there was one made out of metal. Balian stiffened.

It would have been nice if his father had told him that the king was a leper. Then perhaps he wouldn't have stared as much.


Maria had taken him. Sibylla had no doubt as to what her stepmother wanted. The Greek vixen probably thought that Balian was the pliable husband she was looking for. However, the princess doubted that it would be so easy for her to get her claws into him. Balian of Ibelin was Godfrey's son. Ibelins — barring Baudouin— were not so easy to manipulate. She forced herself to remain calm and cheerful and she stayed for a few more moments before excusing herself, claiming fatigue. Men thought that women were more fragile than glass; they would accept that reason.

Guy offered to accompany her, but she declined. His company was the last thing she needed if she was going to find out what her stepmother had done to Godfrey's son. Guy might be a lenient husband, and he might bend over backwards to please her —because he was scared of her, not because he loved her— but she doubted that he would be pleased about her interest in this stranger from France.

Sibylla was fascinated by all things French. That was one of the things that had prompted her to choose Guy over Baudouin; Guy was born and bred in France. That was the only advantage he had over Baudouin of Ibelin, who was a more charming courtier and a more handsome man altogether, not that Guy's looks were displeasing. He simply lacked charisma.

The servants bowed to her as she passed through the corridor that led to her brother's study. Flickering torches lit up the windowless passage, which was decorated with mosaics of the most beautiful geometric patterns in blues and reds and greens and gold.

"Has my lord of Ibelin come this way?" she asked of one of the servants.

"He has just left, milady," said the man. "I saw him go into the gardens."

The gardens? He couldn't have gotten lost this quickly, could he? She'd thought he was more intelligent than that.

The servant was right. Balian was in the garden. Not only was he in the garden, but he was up a tree, trying to coax Melisende's kitten down from its perch amongst the tree's highest branches as the young princess watched from below, calling out encouragements and telling him to be careful.

There was no nobleman in the world who would climb a tree to retrieve a cat for a little girl, of that she was certain. Sibylla did not interrupt the scene. She stayed behind one of the pillars and watched as the highborn blacksmith —for that was what he was— spoke in soothing tones to the frightened ball of fur which was, ironically, named Asad, meaning 'lion' in the tongue of the Saracens.

The cat finally crept down far enough for the man to scoop him up. Still holding onto the animal, Balian inched himself down and then dropped out of the tree. Sibylla couldn't help smiling to herself as Melisende squealed in delight and held out her arms for her wayward kitten, all the while thanking her champion.

Yes, a champion. Little actions could divulge a lot about a man's character, and Balian, it seemed, was born to be someone's champion. Other nobleman would have made a servant go up that tree, but this one had done it himself. Then again, it was quite likely he simply forgot he was a nobleman. After all, he did shoe his own horse this morning.

"Melisende, you should not accost strangers thus, my daughter," said Sibylla as she emerged from her hiding place, startling both her daughter and the young knight, although the latter more than the former.

"I didn't, Maman," protested Melisende, despite not knowing what the word 'accost' meant. Her tactic was to deny the deed first and then, if proven to be guilty, apologize and charm her way out of trouble.

"I offered to help, milady," said Balian as he bowed. "I did not know that this was the young princess."

"That is only to be expected, with my daughter looking like a homeless waif on the streets," said Sibylla as she scooped up Melisende into her arms. Her daughter had smudges of dirt on her nose and her bare feet were dusty. "Besides, I cannot expect a man who would give a princess water warmed by the sun to be able to identify those of royal blood."

"I did not know who you were this morning," said Balian. "And I apologize if I have offended you in anyway."

"It is I who should apologize for my deception," said Sibylla. "After all, how were you to know?"

"You are a princess. A woman in your station need not apologize to anyone."

"Yet it does not make me any less in the wrong, does it, milord?"

She loved it when he smiled. The corners of his eyes crinkled. There was no intrigue in his expression; no ulterior motive. He was just…good. She didn't have any evidence to back this up, save for what she'd just seen, but she could feel it. Some things just didn't require logic.

"Then I accept your apology," he said. As an afterthought, he added, "Milady."

He walked with her as she delivered Melisende back to her distraught nurse and gently scolded the child for scaring the poor woman half to death. She found Balian's presence soothing; even though she'd only met him today, she almost felt as if she'd known him for a long time, perhaps in another life or another reality. He was tenser than she would have liked, but they could work on that. They had time to truly get to know one another, and she intended to know him much better in the future.

"Walk with me, Lord Balian," she said. It was a command, actually. That was one of the privileges of being a princess; she could tell men to do what she wanted and they couldn't really object. "The evening is early yet."

He dipped his head in acknowledgement. They strolled through the gardens in silence. Somewhere, a peacock let out a mournful wail. A warbler trilled. Cool night breezes brushed through the leaves, causing them to rustle. They passed the pavilion where her father used to sit reading Arabic poetry. "Do you fear my presence?" she asked him.

"No," he said. And then he gave her a brief smile; nothing like the one before, but it was a smile nonetheless. She'd take what she could get. "And yes."

She laughed with him. "A woman in my place has two faces," she admitted. "One for the world, and one which she wears in private." He stared at her, waiting. She reached up, as if to touch his face, and then she let her hand fall again. No, she dared not. Not yet. "With you, I'll be only Sibylla."


A/N: This is still the exposition, but feelings and relationships are forming. I've changed things so that Sibylla's first and only child (so far) is a girl. That's going to be very important to the story.